


Flare

by Irelando



Series: the light [5]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Tags will update as we go, in which Bodhi Rook is an enormous nerd about spaceships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irelando/pseuds/Irelando
Summary: Flare (n.)a sudden brief burst of bright flame or light(aka: members of Rogue One meet the original trio)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kindling-verse, but can be read alone! This is more a series of related one-shots than anything with a plot, so please treat each chapter as its own separate thing. 
> 
> I currently have four chapters planned, but am open to requests or ideas! No guarantees, but if there's something you wanna see, throw it my way!
> 
> also, my fingers tried really hard to type luke as luka. CONSTANTLY.

“Sergeant Rook?”

 _I’m never going to get used to that,_ Bodhi thinks, and turns to face whoever it is. “Yes?”

Oh.

Mop-top, dirty blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. Farm boy good looks.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Luke Skywalker.”

Bodhi thinks he might throw up. “You’re the—“

“—Jedi,” Luke finishes, nodding. “I get that a lot.”

The filter between Bodhi’s brain and his mouth decides this would be an excellent time to short circuit. “I thought you’d be—“

“—taller,” Luke says, with another nod and an easy, if self-deprecating, smile. “If you tell me it’s an honor to meet me, you’ll be three for three. Bonus points if you tell me that shot was one in a million.”

Bodhi opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times, but nothing comes out. Heat creeps into his cheeks. _Well done, Bodhi,_ he chides himself, _Two seconds in front of a living legend and you’ve already made an absolute fool of yourself._ “Uh…” he finally squeaks out, “Sorry?”

Luke relents. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault everybody says the same things.” He leans forward, interest sparking in his eyes. “What’s yours?”

Bodhi’s embarrassment cedes a bit of ground to bafflement. “My… what?”

“Your thing. The thing everybody says when they meet you?” When Bodhi just blinks at him, Luke continues, “You must have one. I mean, you’re a legend.”

“I am?” Bodhi squeaks.

“Sure,” Luke says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You came up with the callsign, and everything.” He pauses, his incredible charisma dimming a moment with shyness. “Actually, I’m… kind of thinking of naming my squadron after you. Rogue, I mean.”

“You—you are?” Bodhi stammers. When did the room get so spinny?

“Oh, jeez,” Luke says. “Here.” He pushes a nearby crate over just in time for Bodhi to sit down on it, a little harder than he’d meant to. Luke leans over him. “I’m sorry. Maybe Leia’s rubbing off on me. Are you okay?”

Bodhi takes a few deep breaths. “I think so?”

“Okay,” Luke says, like he’s not quite sure he buys it. “Okay. Hang on.” He pulls another crate over and sits on it, facing Bodhi. He holds out his hand to shake. “Start over. Hi. I’m Luke.”

Bodhi scrapes himself together enough to shake the proffered hand.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Sergeant Rook,” Luke says.

“Bodhi,” he corrects. “Please. The rank is still…”

“Tell me about it,” Luke says with a sympathetic grimace. “I’m ‘Commander Skywalker’ now. Talk about weird.”

Bodhi nods. He thinks for a moment. “It’s ‘you’re The Pilot.’”

Luke blinks, then gets it. “Oh, right! Your thing.”

Bodhi can’t help but grin. He’s never really thought about it before, but now that he does, it’s totally true. “Yep,” he says, “The Pilot. Capital letters.”

Luke laughs. “That might be worse than mine. At least I get some variation.”

It’s infectious. Bodhi’s grin widens, his embarrassment seeping away in the face of Luke’s aggressive friendliness. “Oh,” he says, remembering, “Did you need something? Before I stuck my entire foot in my mouth?”

“No,” Luke says. “Well, I wanted to ask you about the squad name, but really I just…” He starts up. “If you’re busy, I can go.”

“Not at all,” Bodhi says hastily. “I just thought…”

“Thought?” Luke prompts.

“Well, why else would you talk to me?” Bodhi says, worrying slightly at the fabric of his jumpsuit.

Luke’s eyebrows disappear into his bangs. “Because you’re Bodhi Rook! I’ve wanted to meet you since I read the mission debrief from Scarif.”

Bodhi blinks. “Me? Not Cassian, or Jyn?”

“I mean, them too,” Luke says, “But it’s you I really wanted to meet.”

“Oh,” Bodhi says.

“Because you’re The Pilot,” Luke says, exaggerating the capital letters and waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Bodhi says again. He tries to wrap his head around the idea of it, that this Jedi, this impossibility who made the – yes – one in a million shot _without his targeting computer_ …

…admires him?

“I think I need some caf,” Bodhi decides finally. Then, more hesitantly, “You’re welcome to join me?”

Luke’s face lights up. “I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Han groans. “Don’t remind me. I’ve got bruises on my back from people congratulating me. And now people expect things from me. Expect me to be all heroic and shit.”
> 
> “You poor thing,” Jyn says.

It’s quiet in the Rebel bar, still midafternoon, with most of the Rebellion still at work on their drills or their planning or whatever it is they do all day. Everyone always seems to have somewhere important to go or something important to do, Jyn muses, nursing a cup of booze (the bartender called it a Noonian Fixer, which, okay, Jyn has no idea what that is but it’s got quite a kick), but she still hasn’t figured out what those somethings are. Perhaps an even greater mystery, she thinks wryly, is why a blind guy twice her age can spend half the morning sparring with a Jedi and still kick her ass into orbit.

Engrossed in her drink and the satisfied throbbing in her muscles, she almost doesn’t notice when a man plunks himself down at the bar a few stools down.

“You’re that Erso girl, right?” he says after he’s gotten his drink.

Jyn raises her head from her deep contemplation of her own drink and glances down at him. Even without his giant furry friend, she recognizes him easily. “You sweet-talk all the girls like that, Solo?”

He smirks, runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Yeah,” he says, and leans forward in a mock-conspiratorial manner. “But I let the pretty ones call me Han.”

Jyn laughs, which she’s pretty sure is the point. “I heard you were some kind of ladykiller.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just off my game.”

“I sure hope so,” Jyn teases, “Because that line was terrible.”

“Watch it, sister,” he says, but he’s smirking, too. He waves a hand, turning back to the bar. “Who told you I was a ladykiller, anyway? Probably trying to sell you something.”

She takes a sip of her drink, enjoying the burn down the back of her throat, and raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

They drink in companionable silence for a moment. “Heard you saved the day up there,” Jyn says eventually.

Han groans. “Don’t remind me. I’ve got bruises on my back from people congratulating me. And now people _expect_ things from me. Expect me to be all heroic and shit.”

“You poor thing,” Jyn says.

“I’m just destined to suffer,” he laments, mouth curling into a grin. He sobers. “I hear your dad gave Luke something to shoot at.”

Jyn doesn’t have words about her father yet, so she just dips her head in a nod, as casually as she can.

He seems to understand. He tips his glass at her in a vague toast. “A good man.”

She tips her own in return and takes a sip. The burn helps clear the knot from her throat.

“Y’know,” Han says, “You’re not quite what I expected.”

“No?” Jyn says, glad for the change in subject. “And what did you expect?”

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” Han says, “But the talk of the base is you’re dating Andor…”

“Dating?” Jyn blurts, hoping he’ll attribute the crack in her voice and the sudden flush in her cheeks to the drink. “Is that what they’re calling it?”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Han says, eying her. “Seems like it’s true. And that guy has a stick the size of a tree trunk so far up his—“

“Jyn?”

Han trails off into a mumble and takes a quick drink. Jyn manages to stifle her giggle, but only just. She spins on her stool to smile towards the doorway. “You have impeccable timing.”

Cassian blinks. “I do?” His eyes flicker to Han, and harden. “Solo. Long time no see.”

Han raises his glass. “Captain Andor. Always a pleasure.”

Jyn raises her eyebrows, glancing back and forth between them. “You two have met before?”

“Once or twice,” Cassian says vaguely.

“Tried to recruit me the last time,” Solo says.

“Really?” Jyn asks.

“Yes,” Cassian says, a flash of anger tightening his shoulders. “But he was more interested in money.”

“A man’s gotta eat,” Solo says.

Cassian shakes his head and looks at Jyn. “What are you doing in here? It’s the middle of the day.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “I’m a big girl, Cassian. If I want to get drunk when the sun’s still up, I can.”

“Stick,” Solo coughs into his drink.

Jyn snorts, and immediately regrets it when a flash of hurt crosses Cassian’s face. He hides it quickly behind his Captain mask, but she’s getting too good at reading him for that trick to fool her anymore.

She downs the last of her drink, wobbles slightly from the kick, and slides off the stool. “It was nice to meet you, Han,” she says, and smiles. “You weren’t what I expected, either.”

He raises his glass a little in acknowledgement. Jyn takes Cassian’s hand and tugs him with her out of the room. He follows her willingly enough, so she doesn’t stop until she finds an unoccupied storeroom to pull him into.

“What was that all about?” she asks, as soon as she’s sure they’re alone.

He scrubs a hand over his beard, looking a little abashed. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have…”

“Scolded me?” Jyn suggests.

Cassian nods.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have,” Jyn says, “But I shouldn’t have laughed at you either. I’m sorry, too.”

He nods again, but this time his features soften.

Jyn looks at him for a moment. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

Cassian’s mouth twists slightly. “I think he’s lazy, and selfish,” he says. “He’s a good pilot. He could have done a lot of good for the Rebellion, but he was more interested in saving his own skin.”

Jyn pauses. “That sounds familiar,” she says quietly.

Cassian opens his mouth. Closes it again. She’s right, and he knows it.

“You were angry with me, too,” she continues, “And I don’t blame you for it. All I’m saying is, I got over it, and it looks like he might have, too.”

Cassian mulls that over for a moment. “I still don’t like him,” he says, but there’s no real ire behind it. “He’s an asshole.”

Jyn laughs. “I’m not asking you to _like_ him. Just, give him a chance. Okay?”

Reluctantly, Cassian nods. The last of his anger fades, and he gives her an almost nervous look. “We’re okay, right?”

“Never better,” she confirms. “Oh. Did you need something? You were looking for me, right?”

A flush starts to creep up Cassian’s neck. “Uh…” he says. Jyn waits, and after a moment, he continues, “Well. I have the afternoon off, and I thought maybe…”

For a badass spy, he sure could be cute sometimes, Jyn thinks fondly. She runs her hands up his chest, and he lets her back him into the wall, bends down to meet her kiss as she twines her fingers in his hair. He relaxes into her, his hands pulling her hips firmly against him.

They’re both a little breathless when she breaks from his mouth to tell him, “Race you to the room.”

He beats her there, but only just.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Han Solo is surprisingly hard to write. The more you know!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You… don’t believe?” Luke asks quietly.
> 
> Baze glares at Chirrut for a moment. But it’s not the little hero’s fault, so eventually, he folds his arms and answers, grudgingly, “I used to.”

Baze Malbus isn’t much of a gambler. Too many losses already. But he likes to bet with himself, sometimes. That way, no matter the odds, he always wins. Sometimes those little victories are what keeps him going.

His current bet is that it will take less than a day for Chirrut to find a way to meet the little hero. Luke Skywalker. Though, in this case, he’d almost feel safe betting against someone else.

Sure enough, he and Chirrut have barely started their breakfast, the morning after the Death Star’s destruction (well, almost afternoon – turns out nobody wants to be up at the crack of dawn with a hangover), when Chirrut’s head suddenly swivels towards the door. Not ten seconds later, in he comes: Baze hasn’t met him before, technically, but the mop-top hair and lightsaber hanging casually from his belt is a pretty good giveaway.

Chirrut pushes himself to his feet, picking up his staff.

Baze keeps eating.

It’s a testament to Chirrut’s anticipation that he gets several steps from the table before he notices that Baze isn’t following. “Well?” he prompts. “Come on.”

“I’m eating,” Baze says.

Chirrut’s eyebrows draw together. His head is still cocked towards Skywalker, who’s chattering cheerfully with his attendant cloud of pilots, but he doesn’t move. “Baze…”

“Go on,” Baze says. This is important to Chirrut. Regardless of Baze’s personal feelings, he doesn’t want to get in the way of that. When Chirrut still doesn’t move, Baze adds, “I’ll catch up. Later.”

He’s never been a good liar, and Chirrut can read him better than most. But after a moment, Chirrut dips his head in a gesture of concession. “This isn’t over,” he warns.

“You’d better hurry,” Baze says, watching Skywalker head out with food and friends in tow. “Don’t want to lose him.”

Chirrut gives him another look, but he can’t resist any longer. He follows the little hero out of the room.

Baze finishes his breakfast in silence. Then, he sits awhile longer. Normally, he’d follow Chirrut – somehow, the monk always had a purpose, and Baze had never figured out that particular trick. Normally, he’s happy to follow in Chirrut’s wake, a planet in orbit around its own personal sun, and fish his partner out of whatever trouble he manages to get himself into.

But then, there’s not really a normal anymore, is there?

Maybe he’ll go visit the armory, he decides eventually. They were supposed to be getting a new shipment of weapons, and Baze needs a suitable replacement for his repeating cannon. There, see? He doesn’t need a Jedi to find a purpose.

The armory is where Chirrut finds him near dusk. Baze grunts a greeting without looking up from the workbench he’s appropriated. “Have fun with your new friend?”

Chirrut leans against the bench. He’s practically glowing, beads of sweat from exertion still lingering on his forehead. Baze snorts to himself; stands to reason Chirrut would drag the little hero into a sparring match.

“You should have come,” Chirrut says eventually.

Baze shrugs. The innards of his new blaster are a safe place to look, so he doesn’t have to see the way Chirrut is looking at him. He knows it’s not good.

“He is the real thing, Baze,” Chirrut says, frustration laced through a phrase that should be triumphant. “You would see that, if you were not so set on blinding yourself.”

Baze doesn’t really doubt that the little hero is what he says he is. Not deep down. Just like he’s always known the Force is real, deep inside him. He never lost faith in its existence, even if that would have been easier, even if that’s what he told himself had happened. He lost faith in its _power_.

Because if it is as powerful as he used to believe, and still his home – their home – was destroyed…

That’s a betrayal he can’t face.

Chirrut is still there, waiting. He’s an open book; the mix of frustration and hope radiates off of him. He deserves an answer, even if it’s not the one he wants.

“I can’t,” Baze says finally, quietly.

Chirrut’s head dips, his grip tightening on his staff. “You are many things, Baze Malbus,” he says, and the quiet disappointment in his voice is so much worse than his anger. “Good and bad, and I love you for all of them. But I never took you for a coward.”

Baze looks at his blaster, and doesn’t deny it.

\--

The next couple of days are tense. Chirrut is his usual cheerful self around others – even obnoxiously so, running high off his sparring matches with the little hero – but the silences between him and Baze have become awkward, almost cold. Baze walks around the base with his shoulders tense, expecting at any moment that the little hero will show up, sent by Chirrut to try and reawaken Baze’s faith.

But he doesn’t.

And then again, that’s not really a surprise. That would be the easy way out, and Chirrut has never been inclined to make Baze’s life easier.

On the third day, when Chirrut rolls out of bed and starts to dress for his now-customary morning sparring match, Baze sits up as well.

“Going to work on your blaster?” Chirrut asks, more of a challenge than a question.

Baze reaches under the bed for his boots. “No.”

Chirrut freezes midway through tying his sash. Then, slowly, he smiles. “It’s about time.”

“You don’t have to rub it in,” Baze grumbles. But the tension isn’t behind it anymore, and that alone almost makes the whole thing worth it.

Chirrut and the little hero have claimed a room near the landing bay for their matches. Baze parks himself in a corner and watches his partner warm up, trying to soothe his pounding heart with the familiar beauty of Chirrut’s movements.

He feels Skywalker coming before he sees him, a brush of something huge and unformed against senses he would swear up and down he lost long ago.

Then Luke walks into the room, and he looks just like a teenager, limbs still a little gangly, the shine of youth in his eyes and his manner. He doesn’t look like a world-shattering revelation. And yet. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, a little breathlessly.

Chirrut smiles. “I think after the third morning in a row, the apology is a little redundant.”

Luke laughs. “Fair enough.” And then he notices Baze. “Oh! You must be Baze, right? Chirrut’s told me about you.”

“Has he,” Baze says, with an utter lack of surprise.

Luke smiles at him, seemingly unperturbed. “It’s nice to meet you.” He offers his hand.

Baze grasps it briefly. “Nice to meet you, little hero.” Oops. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

Luke’s eyebrows rise. “That’s a new one.”

“Tact is not always his strong suit,” Chirrut says fondly.

Well, too late to take it back now. Baze shrugs. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Luke says, “The hero part is flattering, anyway. But just Luke is fine.”

Baze nods. Abruptly, the young man’s scrutiny is too much, and he waves a hand. “Don’t let me stop you. Chirrut looks forward to this all day.”

“I can wait,” Chirrut counters cheerfully, but Luke takes the hint well enough. He moves to take up a stance near Chirrut. For an instant, Baze is afraid he’s going to pull out his lightsaber, but he produces a staff from another corner instead.

The two settle into ready stances, facing each other. For a moment, both are still. Then, suddenly and simultaneously, they fly into motion. Chirrut, as always, looks less like he’s fighting and more like he’s dancing; Skywalker, on the other hand, is overeager, overreaching in his enthusiasm, more pure energy than skill. Still, he’s _fast_ , and he mirrors Chirrut’s tendency to have strikes miss him by inches and make it look effortless.

They fight for what feels like forever, but is probably ten minutes. In that brief span, they freeze only three times.

The first: Luke leaned back, the end of Chirrut’s staff hovering inches from his throat. “Point to me,” Chirrut says. And they begin again.

The second: Chirrut’s staff rests against Luke’s side, the younger man’s weapon uselessly guarding his opposite flank. “You’re in two pieces,” Chirrut tells him, grinning.

“Your feints are something else,” Luke says, laughing.

“Commitment,” Chirrut says, “It’s all about commitment.” And they move again.

The third: by this time, they’re both breathing heavily, soaked in sweat, and all traces of overeagerness from Luke are gone. It becomes a dance in truth, so fast that even Baze has trouble following the movements. Their staffs are just blurs in the air, the steady clank-clack of wood on metal reaching a fever pitch.

And then, Chirrut stumbles. The staff spins from his hands. They freeze with the end of Luke’s staff just barely skimming the skin on the back of Chirrut’s neck.

For an instant, they hold it. Then Chirrut laughs, loud and exhilarated. “Well done, well done.”

Luke smiles and goes to retrieve Chirrut’s staff, pressing it back into his hands. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Your hand…”

“Not at all,” Chirrut says. Then, to Baze, “Now do you see?”

“Chirrut,” Baze says warningly. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have in front of a stranger, even if the stranger is at the center of it.

Luke looks between them, his excitement fading to puzzlement. “See what?”

“You can’t fight like that without the Force,” Chirrut says. “You must see that.”

They’ve had this argument before, every day since the Empire came to Jedha. But this time it doesn’t feel familiar. It feels like Chirrut’s dragging the broken parts of Baze, the parts that still _hurt_ , out into the ruthless light of Luke Skywalker’s eyes. It’s a private pain made horribly public. For an instant, he hates Chirrut for it.

“You… don’t believe?” Luke asks quietly.

Baze glares at Chirrut for a moment. But it’s not the little hero’s fault, so eventually, he folds his arms and answers, grudgingly, “I used to.”

“What happened?” Luke asks. He flushes. “Sorry. I just met you.”

Baze shakes his head. He doesn’t begrudge the curiosity, but… he can’t speak past the knot in his throat.

“Our home was destroyed,” Chirrut says.

Luke inhales. “Jedha.”

Baze manages a nod. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he envies Chirrut. At least Chirrut didn’t have to see what became of the temple they both loved, its slow and agonizing death at the hands of Imperial thieves. At least he didn’t have to see NiJedha turned to so much ash, the shockwave blocking out the sun. He’s grateful, too, that Chirrut was spared it. But it’s a lot to bear alone.

“I grew up on Tatooine,” Luke says after a moment, tentative. “Never really liked the desert, to be honest, but… it could be beautiful. Couldn’t it?”

“It was beautiful,” Baze says softly. Then, more harshly, “But it’s gone now.”

“The Empire,” Luke says. “But wait—what does that have to do with the Force?”

Baze struggles for a moment. Words have never been his strong suit, and this boy is a stranger. But he’s in too deep to stop now, and Chirrut doesn’t come to the rescue, so finally he says, “The Force is supposed to maintain balance. But I’ve seen what the Empire has done. Alderaan. Scarif. Jedha.” His voice catches on the name. He swallows and continues, “All the people they’ve destroyed. Where is the balance in that?”

Luke considers that for a moment, gravely. “Isn’t that what the Jedi are supposed to do? To maintain balance?”

“Aren’t you a Jedi?” Baze counters. It’s not fair, to put the blame on this young man’s shoulders, but he’s been carrying the pain so long alone that he can’t help but push some of it out.

Luke rocks back on his heels slightly. “Not yet,” he says. A fire lights in his eyes. “But soon. I promise you, Baze Malbus, that I _will_ become a Jedi. I _will_ bring balance back to the Force. And I won’t forget what that balance cost.”

His eyes are blazing, like Jyn’s did when she led them to Scarif. Like Chirrut’s used to, when they were younger, before they were clouded by tragedy. Baze closed himself off to the Force a long time ago, but he’d have to be dead not to feel the power radiating from the little hero in front of him.

He can’t believe it. Can’t bring himself to take that leap of faith. Not yet. But almost.

“I hope so,” he says eventually.

“Baze,” Chirrut says.

But Luke nods, like he understands, like he can see right through the scars to Baze’s beaten, battered, bleeding heart. “I get it,” he says, “You don’t know me yet. But I’ll prove it to you. Just hold on a little while longer. I’ll earn your trust.”

Baze has been holding on a long time. He can do it a little longer. “Okay, little hero,” he says. He looks up, over Luke’s head, to Chirrut. “Satisfied?”

Chirrut smiles, and nods.

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t be let down if you aren’t expecting anything. Baze can’t lose a bet he refuses to make.

But that night, with the weight of Chirrut’s head on his chest and his partner’s thundering snores in his ears, Baze makes a bet with himself. He wagers optimism versus cynicism. He doesn’t trust that the little hero will succeed. But he hopes he will, trusts that Luke Skywalker will _try_ , and that’s better than nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kid, you wanna talk about starships, you can come by anytime,” Solo says. “Your bucket of bolts can come, too.”
> 
> Kaytoo’s head swivels towards them. “Are you talking about me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there were originally going to be four chapters, but then I really wanted to have the droids and Chewie, so here they are. This chapter is lovingly subtitled 'droid shenanigans'.
> 
> I also wanted to have a bit of a break between chapters 3 and 5. The next chapter is Leia's, and is tonally pretty similar to Baze's. Because, you know. Alderaan.

Even among the Rebellion’s battered, hodge-podge collection of starfighters, Bodhi thinks, the _Millennium Falcon_ stands out. He’s not quite sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, to be honest, but it’s certainly intriguing. It doesn’t look like much, striking a clunky, inelegant silhouette next to the more streamlined X-wings arrayed around it, but then again, Bodhi’s used to flying low-grade Imperial cargo shuttles. He’s not exactly one to talk.

It must be modified, he decides. Probably extensively. There’s no way a smuggler like Han Solo would fly a ship like that unless it has had a _lot_ of work done. Bodhi’s fingers itch with curiosity. He’s heard the story a hundred times by now of it flying to the rescue. He’s dying to find out what it looks like inside.

“What are you doing?”

Bodhi jumps about three feet in the air.

“Is that the _Millennium Falcon_?” Kaytoo continues, either unaware that he’s just scared the living daylights out of Bodhi, or graciously choosing to ignore it. The droid eyes the ship for a moment, then says dubiously, “Doesn’t look like much.”

Bodhi presses a hand to his chest, willing his heart to quit pounding. “I think that’s the point,” he says. “But it’s been modified.”

Kaytoo tilts his head. “How can you tell?”

Bodhi points at the cannon hanging from the underside. “See there? That’s an AG-2G quad cannon. You’d usually only see those on a bigger ship.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “To support that kind of firepower, they must have done some work on the engine. Maybe replaced it entirely.” And he counts at least two shield generators, both on the bow, which means chances are good there’s another one elsewhere on the ship.

His curiosity tugs him forward to take a closer look, crossing the no man’s land between the closest X-wings and the _Falcon_. The hull plating looks odd, too, Bodhi notices. Which might explain how a freighter has survived this long against the Empire.

He’s engrossed in an examination of the blaster cannon mounted near the boarding ramp when a deafening roar suddenly goes off in one ear. Strong hands wrap around his arms, and his feet leave the ground.

“Put him down at once,” Kaytoo demands, barely audible over the ringing in Bodhi’s ears. The pilot’s entire body lurches with his captor’s, as though Kaytoo is trying to tug him free.

Another roar. _Oh,_ Bodhi realizes, remembering belatedly that Han Solo has a particular furry copilot with a tendency to be territorial.

He cranes his neck around to try and meet the Wookiee’s eyes. “Easy,” he says, raising his hands as much as he can in his awkward position. He’s proud that his voice only shakes a little. “I was just looking. Promise. Could you… put me down? Please?”

Another roar, but it’s definitely less angry sounding this time. Bodhi’s feet touch the floor, and the grip around his arms lets go. Some small, animal part of Bodhi’s brain yells at him to _run_ , but he stifles the urge. Instead, he turns to face the Wookiee.

Who rumbles suspiciously.

“He most certainly is not a ‘saboteur’,” Kaytoo says. Bodhi’s a little touched at how indignant the droid sounds on his behalf. But, more importantly…

“You can understand him?” Bodhi asks.

Kaytoo gives him a frosty look. “Cassian said it was important I be able to speak to as many species as possible.”

“That’s smart,” Bodhi says.

“It… has come in handy,” Kaytoo admits begrudgingly.

The Wookiee – Chewbacca, Bodhi thinks is his name – rumbles again. Bodhi looks up at him; he seems as tall as Kaytoo, covered head to toe in long brown fur. But his eyes are much easier to read than the droid’s.

“I’m sorry, I’m being rude, aren’t I?” Bodhi says. “I didn’t mean to—to trespass, or anything. I was just curious about your ship.”

Chewbacca grumbles something that sounds like a question. Bodhi glances at Kaytoo.

“I am not a translator droid,” Kayto says. “Why don’t you go find that poncy gold number that runs around with Skywalker? I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

“Please?” Bodhi says.

Kaytoo makes his little clicky sigh noise. “Fine. He asked who you are.”

Bodhi blinks. “Oh. I’m Bodhi,” he says to Chewbacca, “Bodhi Rook. The uh, the pilot? With Rogue One?”

Chewbacca rumbles, and visibly relaxes. He makes a quieter chuffing sound. Bodhi glances over at Kaytoo for a translation, but the droid seems to have lost interest.

“You’re Chewbacca, right?” Bodhi says, hoping he’s pronouncing the name right. The Wookiee nods, and Bodhi offers him a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry we got off on the wrong foot.”

Chewbacca grasps his hand. He’s careful not to put too much pressure on it, which Bodhi is grateful for. He’s pretty sure Chewie could crush his hand without trying very hard.

“What’s going on over here?” another voice calls. Han Solo appears a moment later, thumbs hooked in his belt casually. Chewbacca rumbles a greeting.

“I was just admiring your ship,” Bodhi says.

Solo eyes him like he’s not sure he buys it. “Yeah? Most people say it’s a hunk of garbage.”

Bodhi glances up at the hull overhead. “Well. It looks like one, but that’s intentional, isn’t it?” He points toward the bow. “No one would put three deflector shields on a piece of crap. You’ve modded it, right?”

Solo looks at him for just long enough to make Bodhi nervous he’s said something wrong. Then, the smuggler’s lips curl into a grin, and he nudges Chewbacca. “I like this kid. He appreciates the subtle things.” The Wookiee chuffs his agreement.

Bodhi figures it can’t hurt to press his luck. “I don’t suppose I could see inside? I’m curious what you’ve done with the engine.”

“Kid, you wanna talk about starships, you can come by anytime,” Solo says. “Your bucket of bolts can come, too.”

Kaytoo’s head swivels towards them. “Are you talking about me?”

Bodhi stifles a laugh, but Solo catches enough of it to grin at him. “Come on in, kid,” he says, stepping back onto the boarding ramp. “Me and Chewie’ll show you why the _Falcon_ ’s the best bird there is.”

\--

Cassian is underneath the newly-painted U-wing now christened _Rogue One_ when he hears a series of loud bangs and clanks overhead.

“What are you doing in there?” an unfamiliar but distinctly artificial voice demands. “Come out of there at once.”

 _What the…?_ Cassian shoves himself out from under the ship, ignoring the sullen twinge from his side, and circles around to the open hatch.

A gold-plated protocol droid stands there, and Cassian gets the distinct impression that if the droid’s arms bent enough to him to plant them on his hips indignantly, they would be.

“Who are you?” Cassian asks.

The droid starts. “Oh! Major Andor, sir, I didn’t realize—I tried to stop him, sir.”

“Stop who?” Cassian says, and is answered by a clunk and an electronic trill from inside the ship.

“Artoo, stop that immediately,” the protocol droid calls. Cassian brushes past him to climb inside.

It takes him two scans of the interior to spot the little astromech droid tucked up behind the copilot’s chair, and a third look to notice the info spike it has plugged into his ship’s system.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks, stepping over to the little droid. It beeps absently at him, but doesn’t move. “Stop that,” Cassian says. The droid ignores him.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the protocol droid says, teetering up beside him. “I’m afraid Artoo has always been a bit… well, independent.”

Cassian has had plenty of experience with independent droids, he thinks wryly. This should be familiar territory by now. “What’s he doing?”

The protocol droid bangs on Artoo’s top plating. “Answer him.”

The astromech beeps and whistles. Cassian’s a pilot, sure, but he’s never flown an X-wing or worked with an astromech; he can’t speak binary. He looks at the protocol droid. “Can you translate?”

“Why, of course, sir,” the droid says, “Translation is one of my primary functions.”

“Great,” Cassian says. “Then what is he doing?”

The astromech beeps again. “He says he’s… organizing,” the protocol droid says hesitantly.

“What does that mean?” Cassian asks.

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea, sir. I’ve wondered why Master Luke doesn’t just reprogram him, but he seems to find Artoo’s quirks… endearing.”

Cassian’s eyebrows rise. This is Luke Skywalker’s droid? The one that carried the Death Star plans halfway across Tatooine? That flew into that final, desperate battle with him?

“Artoo, really,” the protocol droid says. “You’re being very rude.”

“It’s okay,” Cassian tells him, and sits with a sigh on one of the bench seats. He’s really quite ready to be back in fighting shape, he thinks, a little sourly.

“Are you certain?” the gold droid asks.

Cassian nods and shrugs. “It’s new. If he messes something up, it’s easy enough to restore the defaults.” Besides, he’s curious now to see what this extraordinary little droid has in mind.

“If you say so,” the protocol droid says dubiously. “Oh! Heavens, please excuse my bad manners, Major Andor, sir. I am C-3PO, human cyborg relations. And this little troublemaker is R2-D2.”

Cassian smiles slightly. These two couldn’t be more different from Kay, but they have their own personalities. He finds he prefers that to mindlessly following their programming. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, “And you can call me Cassian.” It’s always rubbed him the wrong way, to have droids (who are so squarely at the bottom of the heap already) use his title.

C-3PO pauses. “I’m not certain that’s appropriate, sir.”

Cassian shrugs. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Artoo beeps triumphantly and disengages from the ship’s systems, rocking back and forth on his stout little legs as he trills and whistles. Cassian glances at Threepio. “What’s he saying?”

“He says he’s finished,” C-3PO says.

Cassian raises an eyebrow. That was an awful lot of noise for so little actually said. “That’s all?”

“Well,” C-3PO says reluctantly, “He’s also saying some rather unkind things about the original programmers of your navigation systems. I’d rather not repeat it, if that’s alright with you.”

“It’s fine,” Cassian says, unable to help a grin. He likes the little droid’s spunk. He pushes himself up and climbs into the pilot’s chair, giving Artoo a pat on the way by. “Let’s see what you’ve done, huh?”

The U-wing, while reliable and discreet, has always suffered a bit in computing power. Cassian taps in the command to bring up the nav computer, fully expecting it to take several seconds to comply.

It appears instantly. Cassian blinks.

He inputs a complex set of hyperspace calculations – and they complete within a few seconds. It usually takes closer to ten seconds. That might not seem like much, but in a fight, those few seconds could mean the difference between a clean escape and a quick, ignominious death.

“Organizing, huh?” he says, glancing at Artoo. “Thanks.” The astromech gives a pleased sounding beep and wheels around to go. C-3PO looks uncertainly back and forth between them, then turns to follow Artoo.

“Tell Luke Skywalker he better not reprogram that droid,” Cassian says, still marveling at Artoo’s handiwork. “It’s brilliant.”

Threepio manages to look skeptical somehow. “I’ll pass along the message, Major Cassian,” he says, dips his shoulders in something sort of like a bow, and shuffles off after Artoo.

Cassian smiles and turns back to the console. Somehow, he gets the feeling the nav computer isn’t the only thing the little astromech tuned up, and he’s always enjoyed a mystery.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look like you’re having about as much fun as I am,” Jyn says, just loud enough for Leia to hear over the din.
> 
> Whoops. Her mask must be slipping. She doesn’t have the energy left to deny it, so she tilts her head, a wry grin twisting her mouth. “You have a better idea?”

In the days after the Death Star, there is very little time to grieve.

In some ways, Leia’s glad for it. Never mind that her family, her people, her _planet_ are nothing but dust, she has a Rebellion to help run and an Empire to defeat. She doesn’t have the time to fall apart. For all that she’s a Princess (who no longer has a world to lead), she doesn’t have the luxury. The irony of it is almost comforting.

Almost.

She keeps herself busy late into the night, volunteering her time and attention to anyone who asks. In the days after the Battle of Yavin, she meets with Generals, with Majors, with Mon Mothma and the senators who almost gave up in the Rebellion’s darkest hour. She reassures them, bolsters them, smiles and accepts their condolences until her voice is hoarse and her eyes ache from holding back tears. She sorts through the reports coming in from the aftermath: the Empire has fallen back to lick its wounds.

The galaxy holds its breath.

Leia Organa holds her grief with an iron fist.

She holds her anger, too. At the Empire, for turning her people into a horror story to frighten Rebel children at night. At the senators who still live to be afraid, who might have stopped this if they’d only been willing to move a little faster, to risk for the Rebellion as her father did. As she had, lying to Tarkin with her home in his sights. She balls her rage up inside until it starts to eat away at her, in lieu of another target. It festers into guilt. She replays the moments on the bridge of the Death Star a hundred times. Sees her planet’s demise every time she blinks like it’s painted on the insides of her eyelids.

Staring across the War Room holotable as another senator declares his steadfast support for the Rebellion, she wonders idly if they can see the fires of Alderaan in her eyes.

They give her her father’s old quarters. She avoids it until exhaustion drives her to the bed, and she discovers that the smell of his cologne still lingers on the sheets. It’s the closest thing to home she’s found. The room may be haunted, but at least the ghosts are familiar.

If only they would let her sleep.

\--

She makes it through the medal ceremony by sheer force of will. She owes it to Luke and Han and Chewie, to the members of Rogue One, to thank them. They might not have made it in time for her own planet, but they spared the rest of the galaxy the same fate.

Approaching the members of Rogue One, she’s struck by how _different_ they all are. Cassian Andor, a quiet triumph shining through his customary reserve. Jyn Erso, bright and fragile and strong, whose eyes fill with tears even as her chest swells with pride. Bodhi Rook, who cannot hide his fear for an instant but keeps going anyway. Chirrut Îmwe, so full of faith, who makes her laugh for the first time in days. Baze Malbus, quiet and solid, in whose eyes she sees a reflection of her own pain. Even K-2SO; it’s hard to read a droid, especially one she barely knows, but there’s a world of insight in the way his hand slowly rises to touch the medal magnetically pinned to his chest.

After, the base explodes into merriment again, a boisterous echo of the party a week before. This time, though, it has a strange, desperate edge. She understands; they have a lot to celebrate, still, and the threat of the Empire’s return looms large over them all. That doesn’t make it grate on her any less.

She’s listening with half an ear to a wildly embellished version of the final run on the Death Star, told by a pilot who wasn’t even there, when someone taps her hesitantly on the shoulder. She turns, readying a smile and an assurance that she’s _fine, just tired._

The words die in her throat as she meets the surprisingly sympathetic gaze of Jyn Erso.

“You look like you’re having about as much fun as I am,” Jyn says, just loud enough for Leia to hear over the din.

Whoops. Her mask must be slipping. She doesn’t have the energy left to deny it, so she tilts her head, a wry grin twisting her mouth. “You have a better idea?”

Jyn holds up a dark bottle in one hand. “I could use someone to help me and Bodhi drink this. And I know someplace quiet.”

Leia considers. She’s put in an appearance. People are drunk enough that they won’t notice her absence. And quiet sounds pretty kriffing appealing right now.

“Why not?” she says aloud, and stands.

She follows Jyn Erso down a series of back hallways, twisting and turning, until finally they round a corner and come to a dead end hall Leia’s never seen before, with an access ladder and a nervously fidgeting Bodhi Rook.

Jyn pats him on the shoulder as she moves past him to the access ladder, tucking the bottle inside her vest in preparation for the climb.

“Are you sure we’re allowed up there?” Bodhi asks.

“Who cares? We’re heroes, remember?” Jyn says, the sarcastic lilt in her tone turning something that should have been bragging into more of a joke. “Besides. Who’s gonna tell?”

Bodhi’s eyes slide over to Leia. She shakes her head. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“See?” Jyn says. “Nothing to worry about.” And she starts up.

Bodhi watches her disappear into the ceiling, then glances at Leia again. “Uh. After you, ma’am. I mean, Princess. Your Highness?”

Leia smiles, more genuine this time. It’s hard not to in the face of the pilot’s earnestness. “You can call me Leia, Sergeant.”

He blinks, then returns, “Only if you call me Bodhi.”

“Deal,” Leia tells him, and starts the climb up the ladder herself.

She’s not really sure what she expects to find at the top – a forgotten storage room, maybe – but the draft from the open hatch gives it away just before her head clears the opening.

The roof of the Rebel base is rough, weathered, camouflaged to avoid easy detection from flyovers, just in case. It’s well past sundown, but the huge orange globe of Yavin hangs overhead, casting bizarre, warm shadows across the antenna-studded surface.

“This way, Princess,” Jyn calls, and Leia belatedly picks out her seated form, perched on the edge of a large blocky shape protruding up from the roof. Leia picks her way over, careful not to trip, and hops up to sit next to her.

Jyn offers her the bottle. Leia considers asking what it is, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? She takes a drink, and coughs at the burn.

“Too much?” Jyn asks, a little bit of challenge in her tone.

Leia clears her throat. She’s used to more refined drinks – comes with being a politician, never mind a princess – but the burn feels good. Appropriate. “No, it’s good.” The drink sits warm in her stomach, a shield against the brisk wind scudding across the rooftop.

She hears a thud and a muffled “ow”, and Bodhi appears, climbing up to sit on Jyn’s other side. Wordlessly, Leia offers him the bottle. He takes it, but doesn’t drink, turning it over in his hands.

“I’m sorry about Alderaan,” he blurts, and winces. “Sorry. You’re probably tired of hearing that.”

Her training says to be gracious. But she’s tired, and in the dark, it’s easier to be honest. “A little,” she admits. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” She pauses, remembering a detail from the Operation Fracture mission report. “You’re from Jedha, aren’t you?”

“I was,” he says quietly. His eyes are on the bottle, watching the way the light of Yavin plays across it.

“Did you have…” Leia trails off.

Bodhi glances up at her. He shakes his head. “Not anymore.” He looks almost guilty as he says it. Leia understands. Hard enough to lose a world, lose your home. Harder still to lose the people.

She takes a shaky breath.

“I met your dad,” Jyn says. “I think.”

Leia nods. He’d come straight from that meeting to her, sent her off with a message for Obi-Wan Kenobi and a sliver of hope. It was the last time she’d seen him alive. It was a good memory, if it had to be the last. The fire in his eyes, the anger and determination not to let the Rebellion die.

Her cheeks are wet. Jyn and Bodhi pretend not to notice.

“I wish I’d gotten a chance to know him,” Jyn says quietly. “He had guts.”

“He did,” Leia agrees, her voice a little strained. She finds herself smiling. “You should’ve met my mother.”

Jyn laughs. “Runs in the family, huh?”

Leia nods, absurdly grateful for the present tense. It hurts, talking about them, but it’s a relief, too. She’s been keeping it so pent up inside, festering in her heart. It hurts to let it out, but the tight feeling in her chest eases, just a little.

“If you’re not going to drink that, pass it back,” she says, nodding to the bottle.

Bodhi starts, like he’d forgotten he was holding it, and takes a quick drink before obligingly passing it back.

For a while, that’s all they do, just pass the bottle back and forth in companionable silence, and watch the stars overhead. It’s an alien sky, Leia thinks, all the familiar constellations jumbled around, the orb of Yavin dominating the view. It’s pretty, sure, but it’s not hers.

The pleasant burn in Leia’s stomach has turned to a general sort of drifting feeling when she hears a thud from the direction of the hatch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.” Han Solo’s voice echoes across the roof to them. “I don’t see anyone. You’d think that giant eyesore would make life easier, not harder.”

“Look again,” Luke returns patiently, his voice muffled and faraway.

“Come to join the party, Solo?” Jyn says, glancing back over her shoulder. “Better have brought your own booze.”

“Sister, I never come to a party empty-handed,” he shoots back. Then, “Princess, that you I see?”

“Move over,” Luke says, louder now. There’s a brief scuffle, then the two men come into view.

“Pay up,” Jyn says.

Han snorts and produces a bottle, tossing it her way. He pulls out a second and offers it to Leia. “You look like you could use this.”

“Trying to get me drunk?” Leia asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Hey, this was Luke’s idea,” Han says defensively.

Luke looks suddenly shy. “I could feel… well. I thought maybe you could use some company.”

Leia glances at Jyn and Bodhi. Jyn shrugs. Bodhi nods.

“Only one rule,” Jyn says. “No happy talk. Plenty of that downstairs. This isn’t that kind of party.”

“Drowning your sorrows, eh?” Han says. “Definitely better in a group.”

He plops down on Leia’s open side, offering her the bottle again. Leia takes it, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Luke looks a little put out, but then takes a seat next to Bodhi, close enough that Leia realizes they must have met before.

Another thud from behind them. Han starts. “Who else--?”

“I see them.” Major Andor’s voice, this time. He appears a moment later, with the two Guardians of the Whills in tow.

“Oh, now it’s a real party,” Han grumbles. Leia elbows him.

“I’m impressed,” Jyn says, teasing. “I thought I’d finally found a spot you didn’t know about.”

“I didn’t,” the Major admits, and glances at Chirrut.

“I may be blind,” Chirrut says, “But I can see you a mile away, Jyn Erso.” He cants his head toward Luke. “You, I could see from orbit.”

“That Force stuff again, huh?” Han drawls, a little derisively.

Major Andor’s eyes cut to him, and he stiffens.

“Cassian,” Jyn says.

He glances at her. Takes a deep breath. Looks back at Han, and nods once. Han’s eyebrows creep upward.

“Good enough,” Jyn says fondly, and holds her hand out to Cassian. He eyes the current seating arrangement, and sits down with his back leaned against her legs. Jyn hands him the bottle. “We’re drowning our sorrows,” she informs him. He pauses, then shrugs a little and takes a swig.

Leia raises her eyes to find Baze looking at her steadily. “It doesn’t get easier,” he says. “But you get used to it.”

Somehow, that honesty is more soothing than the lie would have been. She nods. Chirrut leans over to clasp her hand briefly, but warmly, then both Guardians settle down near Luke.

There’s the occasional murmur after that, the bottles being passed around, but for the most part they sit in companionable silence, united in a quiet sense of grief. They’ve all lost things (with the possible exception of Han, but Leia has her doubts about that). None of them hurt the same, but it’s close enough to understand each other. They’re all broken, in their own ways.

And yet, they’re all still here, breathing in the cool night air, the light of Yavin throwing their faces into stark contrast. Leia watches Jyn’s fingers card through Cassian’s hair, watches Chirrut lean into Baze like he’s coming home, finding connection through the pain. She feels Han’s shoulder, warm against hers.

She’s lost so much. She’s never going to forget that. That doesn’t mean she can’t rebuild. She _will_ rebuild. To do otherwise would be to let the Empire win.

Tears slip silently down her cheeks. But she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that, Flare is complete! I have a lot of feelings about Leia, you guys. 
> 
> Probably going to take a day or two off, but I have at least two more multi-chapter fic ideas for the crew, and that's before I even get to Empire Strikes Back. Onward!


End file.
